


Mad Science

by picturestoproveit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clones, Drug Use, Dubious Ethics, F/M, Freudian Elements, Sally Donovan Appreciation, Sherlock Being an Idiot, what the fuck am I even doing with my life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:05:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2545265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picturestoproveit/pseuds/picturestoproveit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have nothing to say for myself. Rated M for language, drug use, dubious scientific practices, and poorly timed erections. Mild smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing about this makes sense. I'm terribly sorry. VERY loosely based on this post from Tumblr. http://pictures-to-prove-it.tumblr.com/post/98817778618/psa
> 
> Well…good talk. See ya out there.

“Well…it was a Dark and Stormy night…” Molly began with a dejected sigh.

Mary scrunched her nose as she sipped from her glass. “Mmm,”she hummed, swallowing a mouthful of red wine. “Well, there’s your first problem,” she declared. “Mixing black rum with beer is enough to give _anyone_ hallucinations.”

“I was NOT hallucinating!” Molly retorted. She glanced down at her hands, fidgeting with the stem of her glass. “Besides, if I was hallucinating, then so was Sherlock. And Anderson, for that matter! Care to explain that?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“They never did tell you about Baskerville, did they?” Mary murmured into her goblet, a wry smile peeking out from behind the rim of the glass.

 “What’s that now _?”_

Mary quickly swallowed another gulp of wine as she shook her head. “Never mind,” she said hastily. She leaned forward and placed her goblet on Molly’s cocktail table. “Go on,” she said, shifting her weight on the blue floral sofa and administering a comforting pat to Molly’s knee. “So you’re at the pub…”

 Molly grimaced and tipped her head back, draining the contents of her glass in one nervous gulp.  She hiccupped softly as she set her empty goblet down. “Right…” she continued, tucking an errant strand of caramel-colored hair behind her ear. “So…as I was saying, it was a…”

 

_Two Days Prior_

 

“…Dark and Stormy night at Flanagan’s. You in, Hooper?” Sally asked, playfully nudging the petite pathologist with her shoulder.

 Molly smiled and shook her head. “I’d love to, but I really should head back to the lab. These samples aren’t going to mount themselves,” she said, motioning toward the small specimen cooler in her hands.

 “Who’s mounting what now?” Greg said with a grin. He ducked beneath the yellow crime scene tape and sauntered over to the two women. Molly gave him a good-humoured slap on the arm. “Oh, hush you,” she laughed.  “I was just telling Sally that I can’t go out tonight, I have to get back to Barts and start running these samples.”

 A chilly breeze blew in from the Thames, sending a tuft of dead leaves scattering across the banks of the river and over the blood-soaked crime scene. Yet despite the cold temperature and grim circumstances, the group seemed to be in rare, giddy form. After all, Sherlock had sent John and Molly down to simply obtain samples (“Just collect at least two fiber and one blood, and I’ll be able to solve it from my chair,” John had mimicked earlier, his Sherlock impression becoming more and more canny as the years went on). No one was actually expecting to walk away with a solution so readily in hand.

 “You have them on ice, it can wait until tomorrow,” Sally declared. “Come on! We need to _celebrate!”_ she persisted, slinging her arm around Molly’s neck and clapping Greg on the shoulder. “This case is closed, and we didn’t need You-Know-Who to solve it!”

 “Lord Voldemort?” John chimed in as he made his way toward the group. Behind him, the medics were loading the black body bag onto the stretcher, their movements illuminated by the flashing emergency lights.

 “Close enough,” Sally grumbled. She turned and flashed her most winning smile at John. “What do you say, Doc? First round is on me.”

 John sighed. “Ah, as much as I’d like to… it’s my turn to wake up with the baby tomorrow. Rather not do that with a hangover, “ he added with a grimace, clearly the face of a man who had made that particular mistake before.

 “See? Like I always say: kids ruin everything,” Sally pouted.  “Come on-nnn!” she whined comically, to which Molly giggled.  “I need a drink and I _need_ a wingman!” She cast a pleading glance in Greg’s direction. “Boss?”

 Greg chuckled. “Sorry, Donovan. I’ve got a suspect to arrest, remember?” He grinned. “Besides, if you’re looking to pick up, I’m not sure having me around is going to help you find a bloke.” He raised an eyebrow comically. “My roguish charm and boyish good looks will probably scare ‘em away,” he said, only half-jokingly.

 Sally smirked. “Who said anything about bringing home a _bloke?”_ she replied lightly, waggling her brows for emphasis.

 John suddenly broke into a fit of coughing. “You know…maybe I will go for one drink,” he said, as he pounded his chest and fought to catch his breath.

 Sally tossed her head back and laughed. “Don’t worry about it, Watson. Greg is right. It does feel more like a girls’ night.” She reached over and quickly snatched the specimen cooler out of Molly’s grasp, shoving it into John’s arms in one swift movement.

 “Anderson’s in the lab tonight, bring the specs to him,” Sally instructed, buttoning her overcoat as she spoke. She fiddled with her gloves and shot Molly a satisified smile. “See? Problem solved. Now let’s go before the live music starts. If I’m going to be forced to listen shitty renditions of ‘Wonderwall’ all night, I need to have at least three drinks in me.”

 Molly threw her hands up in mock-defeat. “Okay, okay, okay!” she exclaimed, laughing. “You win. One drink won’t kill me.”

 Sally linked her arm through Molly’s and practically dragged the shorter woman down the sidewalk.

“You say one drink, I say two,” she sang. “Maybe even three. The point is, you can’t just stop at one.” She turned toward Molly and winked. “And you can never have too much of a good thing.”

  

* * *

 

“I still can’t believe I forgot it was Halloween night, “ Molly said loudly, leaning over the table to speak the words directly into Sally’s ear.

 “Whassat?” Sally responded, practically shouting over the din.

The pub was rowdy, filled with drunken revelers dressed in ridiculous costumes. In the far corner, a lone guitarist was putting the finishing touches on a ridiculously bad, and exceedingly loud, acoustic version of “Thriller.”

 “Never mind,” Molly said with a smile. She sat back and went back to studying the crowd. By her count, there were at least five zombies, six sexy nurses, and of course, multiple patrons wearing deerstalkers. _Of course_.

 Which reminded her….

 “You’re texting him, aren’t you,” Sally accused, punctuating her statement with a soft hiccup.  

 Molly squinted at the bright screen of her mobile and gave a lazy shrug. “Just letting him know that the case was solved,” she murmured as her fingers glided over the keyboard.

 “Lemmeseethat,” Sally barked, reaching across the pub table and snatching the phone from Molly’s hand.

 “Heyyyyyy!” Molly protested, attempting to take the phone back, and nearly toppling her third  ( _or was it her fourth?)_ cocktail in the process.

 “No, no, no!” Sally exclaimed as she read Molly’s text, slapping her hand on the lacquered pine for emphasis. “You don’t tell him ‘ _the case is solved.’_ Tell him ‘ _I SOLVED THE CASE’_!”

 Molly blushed. “Well, it’s not like I did it alone, “ she demurred. “And really, it’s not important _who_ actually solved it –“

 “Yes it is! It is, dammit! And you DID do it alone. No one else would have known that the victim was decapitated by a cranial saw!” Sally enthused. “Not even _he_ would have known that _,_ ” she added, nodding at Molly’s mobile pointedly.

Molly grinned in spite of herself. “Well, it _is_ an instrument I use frequently enough,” she revealed, her brown eyes sparkling. “Once Greg mentioned the victim’s brother was a neurosurgeon, it all sort of fell into place…wait, what are you doing?” Molly broke her reverie and her eyes widened as she watched Sally typing feverishly on the mobile.  She leaned forward and again made another swipe for the phone. Sally turned in her seat with a mischievous grin on her lips, deftly dodging the attempt.

 “Nothing! I’m simply transcribing _exactly_ what you just said,” Sally explained, before hitting “send” triumphantly.  She looked up, eyebrows arched. “You need to start taking some credit, Hooper. You’re smart. You’re _brilliantly_ smart. Own it.”

 “I do…own it. I suppose,” Molly murmured, lifting her drink to her lips and taking a small sip. “I’m just…quiet about it, is all,” she continued, setting her glass down with a _thunk_. “No one goes into pathology for glory-hogging purposes.”

 “All I’m saying is – when you have the chance to hog a little glory, _especially_ at the expense of Sherlock Holmes, you take it,” Sally declared. “Now, speaking of taking chances…” she drawled, her eyes drifting over to the bar area, “what do you think my chances are with BlackBerry Bunny-ears over there?”

 Molly turned her head and followed Sally’s gaze to the pretty ( _and vaguely familiar-looking_ ) brunette in the corner, who was currently holding a martini in one hand and furiously typing on her mobile with the other, the pink rabbit ears perched on her head drawing an interesting contrast to the smart pinstripe suit she was wearing.

 “Who _is_ that woman?” Molly blurted out. “I see her everywhere….on the tube, outside my building….” she mused. She finished her drink and wiped her mouth on the back of her sleeve. “She must live in my neighborhood or something.”

 Sally quickly gulped the last of her cocktail. “I’ll tell you _exactly_ where she lives,tomorrow,” she announced, her expression wicked. She took several bills from her pocket and placed them on the table as she rose from her seat. “Wish me luck,” she whispered. Molly giggled was she watched her friend saunter over to her target. She placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder and bent low to whisper something in her ear. The woman finally looked up from her BlackBerry, and judging by her approving expression, Sally really didn’t need _anyone_ to wish her luck.

 A low vibration on the table brought Molly’s attention back to her mobile. She picked it up and squinted at the message on her screen.

_Molly, I need your assistance at Barts. Now. It’s urgent. - SH_

Molly sighed. Not that she expected effusive praise for her role in solving the case, but she at least thought she’d get a perfunctory “good work” for her trouble.

 With a defeated groan, she slung her bag over her shoulder and hopped down from her chair, stumbling a little on the landing ( _it was definitely four cocktails, then.)_ She steadied herself and sent her reply.

 

_I’m on my way. – M_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Freud would have a field day with this" takes on a whole new meaning.

As she made her way down the darkened hallway of St. Bartholmew’s, Molly reviewed a mental list of all the potential scenarios that could possibly be waiting for her inside the lab. Where most people would feel a sense of alarm at receiving an urgent text, Molly remained unruffled. After all, what was _urgent_ to Sherlock Holmes was not necessarily _urgent_ to the rest of humanity,

She rounded the corner, still pleasantly buzzed from her evening out (and simultaneously recalling the time when Sherlock had her emergently paged during a lecture in Edinburgh, simply to notify her that the laboratory manager had ordered the incorrect percentage of glucose control solution), when she suddenly stopped short.

In the dim glow of the security lights, she could just make out a figure huddled up against the double doors of the laboratory. She squinted into the darkness, and took a cautious step forward.

“Sherlock?” she called softly. “Is that you?”

“Molly!” Sherlock responded, scrambling to his feet. “Excellent, you’re here!” His voice was bright with relief, but Molly couldn’t help but pick up on the slight undercurrent of panic in his words.

“Yes…I’m here…like you requested…” she said slowly as she advanced toward the detective, her pace matching the cautious cadence of her voice. She glanced around him, noting the steel rod that had been inserted through the handles of the laboratory doors.

“You’ve bolted the doors,” she observed, and the instant the words left her mouth, she knew that this was not going to be an ordinary Sherlock “emergency”.  A dull, sobering headache began to form at her temples. “What did you do?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“Well… I think my latest experiment may have worked a little _too_ well,” Sherlock said, with an uncharacteristic nervousness. “The technique of somatic-cell nuclear transfer is an _extremely_ delicate process, so honestly, it’s actually quite remarkable that I was able to accomplish what I did –“

“Somatic-cell nuclear trans- that’s…that’s a cloning technique, “ Molly stated dully.  She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh my god, _what did you do?”_ she repeated hoarsely.

“The mitochondria requires the external application of electricity to generate sufficient energy to fuel the nucleus and I…may have overestimated the millivolts necessary to complete the task,” Sherlock admitted, running his hand through his curls, his agitation becoming more and more apparent by the second.

Molly stared at him for a beat. “You blew up my lab, didn’t you?” she demanded. Without bothering to wait for an answer, she reached around him, yanked the steel pipe out of the handles, and pushed her way into the lab with impressive force.

In the split second before Molly entered the room in question, she had considered several plausible situations, all of which involved either the partial or total destruction of valuable laboratory equipment.

So really, there wasn’t much that could have prepared her for the shock of being greeted by an intact lab, let alone by the sight of Sherlock sitting in the corner, clad in oversized green scrubs and a lab coat, casually flipping through a medical journal.

Molly had heard certain humorous expressions that likened a stunned mind to a computer - _system overload, short-circuit, failure to compute, blue screen of death -_ but until that moment, she had never truly experienced the sensation of her brain’s refusal to process the data her senses were trying to deliver.

She whipped around, hoping to find an empty space behind her, _praying_ that this was just another one of Sherlock’s “magic tricks”  (an epic one at that), that he _somehow_ managed to slip past her, change his clothes, and perch himself in the farthest corner of the lab. Because he couldn’t have _possibly…_

Nope. He was still there, standing in the doorway, somehow managing to look both completely ashamed and incredibly proud of himself at the same time.

“You…cloned yourself,” Molly managed to squeak. She turned to look over her shoulder at the double in the corner, verifying that this was, in fact, actually happening.

It was. It really, really was.

She turned back toward the real Sherlock, her eyes full of shock. “You CLONED YOURSELF!!!” she practically shouted.

“I _told_ you not to summon her,” the second Sherlock said condescendingly. He licked one fingertip delicately and turned the page of the magazine with a flick.“All you’ve done is frighten her and place a heavy burden on her conscience. _As usual,_ ” he added with a dramatic sigh.

“Molly, keep your voice down!!!” the real Sherlock hissed, narrowing his eyes at her.  “Yes. Clearly. I have… _inadvertently…_ cloned myself. And your observational skills are simply _staggering_ , Dr. Hooper,“ he snapped, eyes flashing. “Which year of your medical training focused on stating the obvious? Was it the third year or the fourth?”

Clone Sherlock tutted softly from the corner. “Now, now, Sherlock,” he remanded, flicking his eyes toward the pair. “Is that how we speak to someone who came all the way across town on a Friday night, just to help us?” He raised one eyebrow and crossed his legs primly, clearly waiting for a response.

The real Sherlock glowered. “I’m beginning to think I cloned my mother,” he practically spat. He turned back toward Molly with a dejected sigh. “Molly, I am sorry,” he ground out with effort. “That was rude of me.”

Clone Sherlock gave a short nod of approval and went back to his magazine. “Besides, I’m not your mother, Sherlock, “ he said evenly. “I’m your ego.”

The real Sherlock snorted. “My _ego_?” he replied. “Clearly, you haven’t read John Watson’s blog, or else you’d realize my ego rarely involves having manners and offering apologies.”

“Must you be so elementary?” the clone sniffed. He placed the magazine on the counter and leaned forward. “The _ego._ The component of your personality that operates in reality, the one that controls your impulses and ensures you behave in a socially acceptable manner.” He leaned back with a smirk. “That’s relatively speaking, of course,” he continued. “I’m sure you don’t need my help in envisioning what life would be like if I didn’t exist.” He paused and reached for the cup of tea before him, taking a small sip. “The body count would have been enormous by now,” he murmured as he set the tea back on the counter.

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock snapped, pacing back and forth as he spoke.  “What does cloning have to do with Freudian psychology? And how could I _possibly_ clone my ego? It doesn’t make _any_ sense.”

“Sherlock, you’ve managed to produce a fully-functional, adult clone via a few cells and a conveniently-timed power surge,” the clone retorted. “Freud’s structural model of the psyche is _hardly_ the least believable element in this scenario.”

Molly rubbed her face vigorously. “Okay, all of this doesn’t really matter right now,” she said wearily. “We need to figure out a plan. There’s no way we can properly explain how there are now _two_ Sherlock Holmeses in the world _.”_

The real Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “I’ve already taken care of that aspect. That’s not why I called you here.”

Molly raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, really?” she said, a hint of mockery in her voice. “And what is your solution to this problem? Obviously, it must be _brilliant_ for you to feel the need to pull me away from a night out with my friends, so let’s hear it!” She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot comically, waiting for a response.

“It’s simple. I’ve poisoned them.”

“You’ve…WHAT??”

“Yes, I’m afraid he has,” Clone Sherlock concurred. He reached for his tea again and took another delicate sip. “Foxglove, I believe,” he continued, lightly smacking his lips and examining the flavor. “A large enough dose to produce a digitalis effect in roughly…. forty-five minutes or so,” he mused, referencing the large clock above the laboratory doorframe.

“Oh my lord,” Molly moaned, hiding her face in her hands. She inhaled and exhaled slowly, counting to ten before lifting her head. “So… WHY do you need me? It sounds like you’ve already taken care of the problem,” she said, using maximum effort to control the tremor in her voice.

“Corpse disposal,” Clone Sherlock answered for his counterpart. Molly’s eyes widened in astonishment as she turned back toward the consulting detective, shooting him the dirtiest look she could muster.

“You can’t be serious,” Molly whispered hotly. “You want me to help you… _murder_ your clone and _hide the body??_ ”

“First off, it’s not murder. If anything, it’s technically a form of suicide, which, _may I remind you,_ you had no trouble assisting me with before,” the real Sherlock snapped back. “Secondly, I’m not asking you to hide anything. I simply need access to the crematorium. “ He cleared his throat. “And, um, maybe some… lifting help,” he added, at least having the decency to look somewhat abashed.

The slow throb behind Molly’s eyes began to take on a much sharper quality. “I’m not going to debate the definition of murder with you,” she hissed, eyes blazing, “There is no other interpretation of the words _I’ve poisoned them_ than-“

Molly stopped as soon as the words left her mouth.

“Wait…you said you poisoned _them?_ ” she asked, a newfound dread building in her stomach. “What do you mean… _them?_ ”

Before he could answer, Molly was struck by a particular odor. “What the… is that _marijuana_?” she exclaimed, sniffing deeply and crinkling her nose. She turned toward the source of the smell, and noted a thin veil of smoke seeping out from beneath the locked door of the dispensary.

“Let him out, before he burns the lab to the ground,” Clone Sherlock sighed.  He rose slowly from his chair, carefully plucking an invisible thread from the front of his scrub top. “He should be relatively docile by now, given the elevated THC levels in medicinal-grade cannabis.”

The real Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples vigorously. “I’m not letting him out,” he spat, eyes still shut. “Not until he’s dead.”

Clone Sherlock harrumphed. “Yes, we’ll wait until he sets off the smoke alarm instead, “ he retorted, his tone dripping with superiority _._ “What do you think will happen if the sprinkler system is activated right now? All these samples, all this equipment…it will all be ruined. And who will take the blame for that?”

“Molly,” the real Sherlock muttered, casting his eyes to the floor.

“ _Molly_ ,” Clone Sherlock parroted smugly. “Let him out, Sherlock. You’ve created this mess and dragged Molly Hooper into it, _yet again._ Let him out so we may enact a bit of damage control before we get the poor girl fired.”

Molly stared at the two of them, shaking her head. Before either of them could act, she stormed past them and punched in the key code to the dispensary. The lock clicked once, and Molly yanked the door open, knowing full well what she was going to find.

There, sitting cross-legged in the center of the dispensary, sat a third Sherlock.

He was shirtless, clad only in a pair of loose-fitting scrub pants, his dark curls disheveled and flopping over his forehead. He looked up with hazy eyes and grinned. “You never told us you kept weed in here, Molls,” he said lazily, that stupid grin eating up half his face. “Shit, a couple of tokes once in awhile would probably do him some good, “ he continued, gesturing over Molly’s shoulder at the real Sherlock, who looked to be a few short seconds away from having a stroke.  “How anyone walks around all day with a stick that far up their ass is beyond me,” he added with a chuckle, lifting the joint to his lips and taking a deep drag.

The second Sherlock peered over Molly’s other shoulder. “And _this_ would be the id,” he announced smugly.

“The fuck I am!” the other clone snapped indignantly, coughing out a large cloud of thick smoke as he struggled to his feet. “If anyone’s an idiot here, it’s that fucker!” he spat, throwing the end of joint in the real Sherlock’s direction. “I’m not the one who’s so petrified of talking to some random chick that I accidently cloned myself!”

The glowing roach landed impotently at Molly’s feet. She stepped on it absently, crushing it beneath her heel as she absorbed the scene before her, slack-jawed with a renewed loss for words.

Ego Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Do you see what I’ve been dealing with for the past two hours?” he whispered into Molly’s ear. He straightened, taking a small step back. “Not the _idiot_ , you idiot,” he said, addressing the other clone with disdain. “The _id_ ,” he emphasized. “The component of our personality that is the source of our desires and impulses.”

Molly cleared her throat. Without tearing her eyes away from the clone in the dispensary  (who, thankfully, had busied himself with fondling a bad of intravenous saline solution), she leaned toward the real Sherlock.  “Why does your id have an American accent?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock responded tightly. “But to be perfectly honest, I don’t really question it.”

Id Sherlock looked up from the jiggling bag of fluid and shot Molly a wolfish grin. “Anyway, as I was saying, before I was _rudely_ interrupted,” he said, throwing the saline bag and hitting Ego Sherlock square in the face, “ _this_ fucking basket-case over here would rather try _cloning_ body parts instead of just manning-up and asking you for them.”

Molly turned toward the real Sherlock, stunned. “Is that true?” she snapped hoarsely. “That’s what this is all about? You tried cloning body parts so you wouldn’t have to talk to me anymore?” she continued, her pitch rising.

“NO!” Sherlock retorted, his response forceful and immediate. He cleared his throat. “Okay, well…not exactly,” he continued, wilting slightly beneath Molly’s furious stare. “I just don’t want to be… I don’t want to trouble you any more than I have to,” he said in a rush. “You made it pretty clear that you aren’t really interested in being my presence, so-“

“What?” Molly asked, stunned. “When have I _ever_ said I didn’t want to be around you?”

“Well, _he_ definitely wants to be around _you_ , he’s just too much of a pussy to admit it,” Id Sherlock butted in. He stepped forward, his leering gaze fixed squarely on Molly’s breasts. “Seriously dude, does your dick even work?” he continued, his eyes never leaving Molly’s chest. “How have you not tapped this yet?” He casually hooked his finger under her collar and pulled the fabric forward, bending his head low to peek down her blouse.

Molly’s hand shot forward, seemingly of it’s own volition, and cracked the clone across the jaw with stinging force.

Id Sherlock stumbled backward, clutching the side of his face. His eyes flashed momentarily, and Molly couldn’t help but shrink a bit. She had forgotten that she was dealing with the living embodiment of Sherlock Holmes’ primal urges. If she had to wager a guess, she would surmise that murder was probably one of the desires he suppressed on the daily.

Instead of killing her, however, the clone began to laugh. “Yeah, hate to break it to you sweetheart, but we actually really like when you hit us,” he said, his grin lewd and spiteful. “We think about it all the time. Especially in the shower. I’m willing to bet he has half a stock over there right now – “

The clone was quickly silenced by Sherlock’s fist crashing into his mouth. He collapsed into a bloody, unconscious heap on the floor.

“Well…not the way I would have done it, but effective nonetheless,” Ego Sherlock remarked. “Get in the cupboard,” he instructed them with yet another put-upon sigh. “Once he regains consciousness, I imagine his homicidal tendencies will be on full display. I’ll handle him until the foxglove takes affect.” He steered Molly and Sherlock toward the storage cupboard in the far corner of the lab.

“Oh, good lord,” Molly muttered as the clone opened the door and pushed them both inside.

“Think of this as a positive arrangement, Molly Hooper,” Ego Sherlock said with a smile. “You two can work out your issues in relative peace, and I can ensure that you don’t get murdered by your potential paramour’s science experiment.” He smiled again. “I would say it’s been a pleasure, but it’s not in my nature to lie,” he bade pleasantly, swinging the door shut with a flourish.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, Sherlock's Id is voiced by Seth Rogen. Now go back and read it again. You can thank me later.


End file.
